


La fin

by cuneifire



Series: Of revolts and revolutions [4]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: 19th Century, Blood, France and England's continually fucked up sexual tension, Gen, Historical Hetalia, Languages, M/M, Napoleonic Wars, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-18
Updated: 2018-09-18
Packaged: 2019-07-13 20:01:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16024973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cuneifire/pseuds/cuneifire
Summary: The battle of Waterloo, 1815.Do you think this is where it ends, Angleterre? Do you think this is how it finishes- for us, of all people?You should know, by now.For us, it’s never over.Somehow, it’s a comforting thought.





	La fin

**Author's Note:**

> The title is a lie.

 June 15, 1815

.

Mud slicks against his boots, rain tumbling in front of his eyes and catching in his lashes. The blue of his coat stains in brown and red, white straps entirely dirty.

France’s musket, however, is impeccably clean as he marches towards England’s base.

He straightens his collar, lips twisting into a frown at his own uncleanliness; he is better than this, he knows. But war makes monsters out of men.

His boots stamp on the ground in tandem with the other forty men as he approaches the Hougoumont, shoulders straight and gaze set. He wonders at who is there, in the building; which soldiers, which generals, the grand men of the Allied counsel, perhaps even Wellington himself, perhaps even Eng-

Of course England would be there, he knew. That vicious bastard would never miss an opportunity to boot his face into the dirt. Even if France knew it’d be him losing tonight.

Their commander began giving his instructions, just outside the grand farm that England has chosen as his basis for the battle. 

His eyes were cast steel as he spoke;

“Capture the farm. Or, die trying.”

The men aside him nodded. France did, a liking to himself he could die many more times than either of them could.

It was pouring rain, and they had a farm to burn.

But he’d done more impossible things.

Perhaps tonight he would truly die, he thought, gaze upon the slight hill where he knows Napoléon was, commanding his army with something reminiscent of the vigor he’d once held. Perhaps England would finally, oh-so- finally, fulfill the promise he’d made centuries ago.

_“One day, I’ll kill you for real.”_

France had doubted it then, had laughed his stupid Angleterre’s face with utter impunity, certain that would never come to pace. He is equally doubtful now, but now his bones feel harsher aches and his skin more hasher scarred.

He steps forwards, and charges the house, roar of the thirty-nine men aside him deafening.

He whips out his musket, hands shaking and hands precise as his fingers shove over the trigger. He counts the redcoats; one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten.

Ten to forty. And the best general to ever walk the face of the planet. They could easily take Hougoumont.

And after that…

His vision stirred, and he saw glory.

Rapidly wiping his hands of gunpowder as he reloads, grey clouds up in his vision, as if it were dust, or the falling rain that has just stopped. He crouched behind a bush, back harsh to the orchard wall. Above him was a tree. Apple tree, belle pomme, fruit in the sky above him. Red.

He slits his eyes as he searches the trees, blue of his men flashing in and out of his range of vision.

He searched for red.

His hands stilled over the gun, knees and booted toes digging into damp, grassy dirt. He stared, waiting.

A gunshot rang out.

One of his men was dead.

For less than a half second, everything was silent, just a bloodied redcoat on the crux of his vision, grass underneath his feet, and a loaded gun in his hand.

Everything is quiet.

And then it’s not.

In that spit second, France’s boot is pressed against the wall and his weight is shoved up and there’s a clanging _BANG_ where silence once was and one of England’s men is dead on the floor and he is smiling, teeth feeling cracked against one another. 

His men stare at him. At least, the ones who are alive do.

And then guns clack again and he shoves past the bushes to look, eyes catching on red.

And then he’s completely out of breath and his chest is shoved to the dirt, cursing the bastard and slamming a hand to shove himself up and-

It’s England. Of course it is.

It’s always England.

The glint in his eyes shines brighter than the sunless sky as he draws and lowers his pistol to France’s chest, tip of the bayonet just pressuring to cloth.

“Found you.” He says, smirk curling up on his lips, the air around him like a halo, sunlit and beautiful and twisted around his knock-teeth smile. 

    “You always do.” France says, not sure whether he is exasperated or fond or ready to murder or simply tired. His hand goes immediately to the buckle that holds his gun, and-

“You son of a bitch-” there’s his gun, adjacent to an apple tree three meters out of his reach, scuffed by a blackened boot. 

    England smiles. “Now this-” He says, leaning on his gun casually. “-Is going to be fun.”

France kicks the gun before England has the opportunity to put it to one of its various uses, all of the which would be unfortunate for France. And he’s gun about to grab at his musket, hook off the bayonet and shove it directly into England’s heart when a burning sensation hits directly in his chest.

    For a half second it’s just clarity, and he can see England smiling down at him, the fire set to the Hougoumont by his soldiers, the blue grey sky,  _the past two thousand years,_ and then his chest is on fire and his back hits the concrete ledge and the gun is directly above the spot where his heart is.

They should really have a catch safe on those things; a safety, something to make sure you didn’t shoot the wrong person, didn’t turn the wrong army to pieces.

But England has never been careful, not with his strategy, not with his army, not with his heart.

He’s rather stupid like that, France thinks, blood staining his uniform with straight tipped pressure.  _Moron, truly, incapable of even having a land army, one has to wonder what he’d even do without that bloody channel._

 _Probably die._ Briefly, France giddily contemplates the thought, until he’s ruthlessly shoved back into reality.

The buzzing white noise of words leaving England’s mouth solidify into actually comprehensible syllables, a rather regrettable phenomena.

“Fuck you.” England spits out, barrel pressing closer to spot between France’s ribcage.

“Not at this moment, Angleterre.” France says through a mouthful of bitter blood, feeling he is rather inadequate for such an action at the moment.  _And besides,_ he thinks offhandedly,  _we have already done that, non?_

England’s lips turned just so slightly upwards; or maybe that’s the blood loss fucking with him. Either way, his eyes light up with fury, and he digs the barrel further downwards.

England’s teeth grit as he stares down.

“I hate you, you know.” He says, blood dripping down his chin, eyes like a crazed animal as he shoves the musket off France and then, through some type of feat or strength or cleverness or straight up insanity, wrenches the bayonet blade straight off. The metal glints harshly in the cloud-shrouded light.

“yes, you’ve made that quite-“ France says, and clamps his teeth down viciously when the blade slams into his chest.

“-foutre de-“ pain wrenches in his chest like his insides are being pulled out one by one, the hotness of England’s hand on his chest digging into the wound.

“You know why?” He says, eyes glinting with vicious insanity, teeth bared.

France chokes on blood, feeling it run down his throat.

Tilting his head back to rest on the cement edge of the orchard, his gaze just meets England. He bites over his words, feeling the bullet wound in his neck bleed out cold on the dirt.

_Maybe he’ll make a garden out of my blood._

“You know why, France?” England screams, knees bent on either side of France, the hand not skewing metal into France’s chest on his shoulder, fingers digging into his shoulder.

He holds England’s gaze.  _Tell me,_ he tries to say with his eyes, small smirk lifting on his lips.

The blade slams down harder, England’s full force behind it, sound of metal scraping concrete and edging spine. France’s hands dig into England’s collar, fabric tearing into shreds and coming undone in his hands. Pain slices in his chest and arms and anywhere where England happens to be touching him, which is rather unfortunate because England happens to be doing that a lot.

England’s eyes meet his as his gloved hand presses to flesh. “I hate you-” he breathes out, stuttering with either cold or rage. The edge of the knife glints like the fire in his eyes.

“Let me tell you something, France.” He says, motion stilling, though blood still coats his jack leather gloves.

“When we first met- do you remember that?” And France does,  _dieu he does,_ and hit head throbs painfully as he nods but it’s all in vain because England’s eyes aren’t on him they’re on the horizon, always, always looking forwards.

“Because I do, France. I remember a lot, about you, actually.” He pauses over the words. But then his breath shudders and his shoulders drop and his eyes level with the fading sun and he continues. Maybe he just thinks France is too close to death to even remember this.

“I admired you.” He says, voice nothing above a sweet, poisonous whisper coiled tightly in France’s mind. The sky, he thinks, is rather blue. “I saw how you were- for a while, almost beat Rome. Do you remember that? Rome, the man who was what you once were- what I’ll be.”

“And then when I saw you again, later, you were different. Hardened. Somehow, if that type of thing is possible with what we are.”

“And then-” His voice almost catches here, and France wants to hit him over the head repeatedly with a table.  _He’s always the victim, the righteous one wronged by this too evil world. The philosophical man in a world of vicious fighters forced to take up the sword._

_I’ve seen the look in your eyes when you kill people England, when their blood spills on your hands._

“And then you-”

_You think I don’t know you?_

France feels delusional. The world tilts sideways, before righting itself on the axis of England’s white knuckled hands.

“-The things you fucking did, France, do you never regret anything?” The look in his eyes reads  _how could you,_ and France has no words. He’s always been much more fond of actions, really. But right now his hands are slammed against concrete and he’s rather incapacitated by the hole in his chest.

So he just levels their gazes and snaps his wrist up, grips the bayonet blade in his chest and stares up, boring into England’s too green eyes.

“Do I regret anything?” He says slowly, watching England’s eyes slowly darken. A chuckle rasps against his throat.  
“Angleterre, do  _you?”_

He can see it, directly in the way England’s expression shifts and his lips curl into a snarl and his hand pressures down on the blade and France’s pain dulls just slightly less.

Something leaves England in that second, the cold steel fades from his eyes and is replaced by something… older.

It reminds France of when he looks in the mirror.

And the word comes out slowly, hesitantly.

“Yes.” it’s a whisper, nothing more, but somewhere between the way England’s bloodied lips move and his barely functioning hearing, France understands.

“There are things I regret.” England says, slowly, as if tasting the words. France imagines they’d be bitter, a broiling soup of delicate shimmering poisons.

England’s eyes are not on his anymore. His shoulders droop, his smile curves, the pressure on the blade crevassed in France’s ribcage drops. If he was anyone but England, France would call his expression something like regret.

_How do I tell him that to regret means to be human?_

“Wha-” And his thought is cut off by England wiping his face of expression, resounding crack in the air as his gaze meets France’s and suddenly the breath leaves France’s lungs.

“I never want to see you again.” England reiterates, the words so old and easy they taste like candy.

France smiles, weakly and through a million thoughts. Not once, has he ever told England the same. It was always  _you imbecile_ or  _get lost_ or  _I’d like to hurt you more._ But France, France had never even  _contemplated_ that. A world without England to be a constant thorn in his side? What type of world was that, really?

He vision is dazed and blurry and all he sees is the green-and-pitch-black of England eyes. It’s taken him minutes, months,  _years,_ but he finally finds the words.

His language, does not, never has had, a word for  _goodbye._ Not like English.

_“How do I say ‘get the fuck out of my country, I never wanna see you again?’” England asks, snotty nose turned up and lips curled down._

_Eight hundred years ago, he’d taught England French. It had proven a stupidly difficult task._

_France had sighed, cursing William for ever invading this cold, miserable stupid island. And then this cold, miserable, stupid island for ever having miserable, stupid people, who had given creation to this stupid, miserable child, even though his sighs didn't feel quite as rough as they should be._

_“You would say, ‘Au revoir, tes misérables pi_ _è_ _ces de merde," which had been and still was a rough translation, muttered under his breath between war plans and catching England's eye._

_England had pouted. “the way you use ‘it’ is stupid.” he’d said. France had resisted the urge to punch his smug face in._

_Much to his later regret, he didn’t._

_That had been the last time they had ever talked in French. England always insisted English was better, and France always spoke back in his own language, because he’d rather hurt something- anything-than degrade himself to that level._

_He simply_ wouldn't. 

England’s hands shook as he pulled the blade out, trembling against the cloth of France’s uniform. France pries his eyes open, to see England’s shaking expression. His eyes look as though they’re drenched in rain, his lips coated in blood as his teeth dig into them. Behind him, flames struck up the farm’s very groundwork, burning it.  _Take the farm,_ France silently wills his men.  _Take the goddamned farm and we can_ win.

France highly doubted England had spoken in French in about five hundred years. But as they say, better late than never. 

And it had always stuck him as a great regret he’d never told England that ‘au revoir’ simply meant ‘until next time’. There was no permanent goodbye, not for them. No killing each other of for real. For them this would have to count. 

The thought is quite the victory. 

So he looks up, slackens his grip on England’s collar and tilts his head back into the pool of blood below him, alongside cold cobblestone. His lips curl up into a smile, not a proper one, but enough an imitation of something real to be taken as such.

Perhaps that’s just what he and England are.

“Au revoir,” he says, instead of those viciously saccharine words, instead of those thoughts, instead of fighting, to green eyes and a blue-gray sky and to victories past and to the lovely vision of putting twin bullet holes in England’s chest.

 _Oh well_ , he thought as his eyes closed and the sound of gunfire slowly faded out of his mind, he supposed he could tell him the next time they attempted to murder each other. There’d always be another chance.

He just wondered who would be holding the pistol then.

**Author's Note:**

> Notes  
> -The Battle of Waterloo took place in 1815, and was the final nail in Napoleon’s military coffin. In it, the Prussian and British faced off the French in the Belgium town of Waterloo.  
> -The French soldiers of the battle went in with a serious hope at winning, despite Napoleon’s various defeats since his return in the Hundred Days.  
> -The Hougoumont was the name of the building in which the British set up camp for the fight. During the battle, forty French soldiers were sent to capture it, with only ten British soldiers defending. The attack failed, the British held the fort, and the French lost, leading to the end of the Napoleonic Wars and Napoleon's exile to St.Helena's.
> 
> Constructive criticism/feedback is always appreciated!


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